


Shadows in the Barrowstead

by Kami_del_Antro



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Galahad Kircheis, M/M, OCxOC - Freeform, Tahiel Shadowhisper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 11:30:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16831741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kami_del_Antro/pseuds/Kami_del_Antro
Summary: After his selfishness drove Galahad to a dangerous place, Tahiel realized he had fucked up and came back to him in his hour of greatest need. After saving his Dearheart’s life -and incidentally, his soul and the world-, they return to the place that should’ve been Galahad’s tomb 80 years ago, before he turned into a Revenant.





	Shadows in the Barrowstead

**Author's Note:**

> Original notes: I wrote this after my search bar reminded me of the existence of a song by Steven Wilson. Galahad and Tahiel were literally made for each other, but have a really complicated history. This is the culmination of the moment that brought them together for good. I WISH I had written allllll that came before already but yeah, someday.
> 
> Update 03-12-2018: This one is part of my Guild Wars 2 au that me and Ren have been writing for like 3 years now. I have no idea how to put an order in all of this mess (some parts are written in English and others in Spanish so it's currently a huge mess), but maybe someday I will.
> 
> Galahad belongs to Ren, Tahiel is all mine.

__

_Sing for me_   
_Sing for me_   
_You can come with me_   
_You can live with me_   
_Heal my soul_ _  
Make me whole_

Just as mortals, Time has a way to expire, but it is somehow even crueler than the way of the living. Every second a mortal grows older, tired; but Time doesn’t even have that luxury. Every second passes, and meets its end at the tick of a clock. Every day, every week, every month, every year. Like prisoners on death row, Time dies. Over, and over again.

Tahiel could feel death, clinging to the walls of the dilapidated homestead, like someone could feel the cold on their skin, the wind on their hair. Death in the frozen chimney, on the wooden columns turned to ice, on the unidentified rubble, frozen over in indistinguishable bulks. It was hard to believe it had been used, a long time ago, for anything else than to harvest Icebrood; leaving Sons of Svanir to die in the cold, their bodies slowly freezing, their minds slowly turning into one with the Dragon. It was hard to believe that, at one point in its history, it was home to inhabitants and their little lives, their insignificant problems, their laughs and their tears.

Once that homestead had life inside of it.

Tahiel could see it, of course, for the shadows of death were clearer to him that the light of life around him. Even the shadow of Time. It was the way of a Reaper, after all. Death was his most trusted advisor, his most unconditional ally, and he was the Shadow Whisperer among his kind. Shadows sought for him. He could feel their cries in the frozen wind.

However, just this time, he knew he wasn’t the only one who could see them, who could hear them. Because as Galahad moved from his side, by the doorframe, to the center of the room, his eyes were clouded with visions of years past. For it was the way of the Revenant to see the shadows that the Mists hide in their compassionate veil. Even if those shadows would tear their heart apart.

Galahad strutted towards the roaring fire, feeling its warmth in stark contrast to the cold outside. His nose was red and a bit watery, so he inhaled sharply as the heat began to reach his body, relaxing his sore muscles after a day of hunting. He rubbed his hands together with a sigh, and a soft smile of contempt.

“Ah, you’re here early,” said Thorvald, peeking from his workshop. Galahad turned and smiled at his father, shrugging.

“We wanted to bring the three-horned elk, but the Spirits threw a blizzard our way, so we came back,” he said, finally removing his gloves. “Mom should be back soon, too.”

“If the Spirits brought you earlier today, then I’ll make supper earlier, too!” Thorvald rejoiced, cleaning his hands with a dirty rag. “You know how your mom gets upset when the hunt doesn’t go her way. Better have her a special something… which reminds me.”

He vanished once more from the doorframe, and Galahad glanced over with a raised brow when he heard the rustle of weapons and tools being manipulated. Finally, he heard Thorvald yell “Ah-ha!” in victory, before his heavy steps warned him of his coming back.

“What do you think?” the blacksmith said, showing off his creation with pride. Galahad let his mouth part open, as his own pale blue eyes glanced back at him from the polished surface of a shield.

The wonderfully reflective part was merely the shield’s boss, surrounded by a wooden reinforcement which was as flexible as it was sturdy. But even more beautiful than the boss was the mithril lining near the border; just as bright and polished, but carefully carved with norn runes which kept interlocking from the bottom all around to the bouche. Galahad squinted, holding the shield closer to his eyes, fogging his own reflection with his breathing as he read. It was the history of the Great Exile; a sad and fabulous tale of sacrifice and heroism. His eyes widened, as he raised his gaze to meet his father’s. He was smiling, too.

“I think mom will love it,” he said, earnestly. Thorvald took a deep breath, proud and satisfied.

“Well! It’ll be better waiting for her like a good old trophy then, don’t you think?” he said, carefully recovering the shield from his son’s hands. After thoughtful consideration, he hung it above the fire; the warm light blinked in it’s boss, and illuminated his soft, elder features.

Galahad couldn’t help but to touch it. The cold surface was hard, unwelcoming to his eager fingers. His breath, as he sighed, rose as fog in the cold, empty homestead, where fire had ceased to roar so many years ago. The wall was frozen solid; the corrupt ice had taken over, eating up the wood, suffocating the flames.

Tahiel blinked once, as he felt his eyes dry. He hadn’t moved from the doorframe, scanning the area silently, as one with the shadows. It had been a happy place, with happy memories. And so much sorrow.

At the sound of quick footsteps in the snow, Galahad quickly turned to the door. Thorvald and Magnir exchanged a quick glance, as Frida tensed up on her seat. The door opened and Encke ran in like the blizzard itself; pale and blonde as she was loud and imposing, despite her young age. She shivered as she removed her heavy coat, and melted snowflakes dripped lazily on the arctodus carpet as she dropped it to the floor.

Magnir cleared her throat, and Encke froze. She looked up in shame, and locked eyes with Galahad, who smiled sheepishly at her mortification. She immediately took her coat from the floor, hanging it at the wooden hanger beside the door, and walked stiffly towards the table, bowing respectfully.

“I completely forgot it was today!” she admitted, still bowing. “I’m sorry mom! I’m sorry dad! I’m sorry brother and sister! I’m sorry Havroun Harald!”

She took a seat beside Frida and in front of Galahad, mouthing the word “sorry” again at him. He couldn’t do more than smile at her once more, as he was a bit anxious, too. The presence of Havroun Harald of the Raven wasn’t as warm and welcoming to him that night of all nights; it was commonplace for Havrouns of the Spirits of the Wild to aid their neighbors and share their food. It wasn’t commonplace, however, to share a dinner during a night in honor of the Raven. It was a rare and special occasion. It was a occasion with a deep, important meaning.

“Now that we’re all here,” announced Magnir, just a little bit tense. “Dinner can begin.”

Frida licked her lips eagerly, and gave Encke an exasperated look. The girl, however, discreetly stuck her tongue out at her, seizing the chance when Thorvald stood up to grab his magnificent roasted dolyak sidesteak. Harald noticed the confrontation between the young girls, but pretended not to with a discreet giggle and a wink at Galahad. The young norn felt a weight lifting from his shoulders.

In time, he was going to become Harald’s apprentice. He was going to learn the ways of the Raven, because as his family shared their food with the Havroun, so he was going to share the secrets of the Mists with their eldest son. On that beautiful table, polished to perfection by his father, Galahad had sealed his destiny.

He stood beside the place, where frozen barrels and animal bones littered the open space. There was nothing left of the table; not even the slightest hint of its existence.

The sylvari breathed in deeply, vapour escaping quickly from his softly parted lips. Other race’s sorrow was hard to understand, or to quantify. It was easier to contemplate; to assist as an expectator to the tragedy that was the world before even the Firstborn awakened. To be moved by its absurdity, its inevitability.

He stood from the doorframe, moving two steps back, as the blizzard entered violently through the open door. A tall, strong figure hurried inside, gasping and moaning in cold. Galahad followed, removing his hood and shaking his head to shake off the snowflakes that still cling to his long, blonde hair.

The other figure dropped his hood too, glancing over his shoulder towards his hunting partner. Even before the legends, he was strikingly handsome; golden locks of wavy hair framed his face, as delicate as it was subtly manly. A smile flashed on his face, and such smile could melt icebergs and bring forth the always late spring to the High Shiverpeaks. Galahad could only return his gesture, with a slight blush on his cheeks.

“Magnir won't mind if we stop by for a bit?” the man said, rubbing his frozen hands together. Galahad shrugged.

“Eh, probably not,” he replied, hanging his heavy coat on the wooden hanger. “In any case, mom’s not home for the day. She went hunting a bit farther north with Whitebear.”

That gave the man pause. He stopped removing his gloves and coat, staring briefly at Galahad and nodding.

“Thorvald?” he asked, stopping himself from dropping his coat to the carpet and opting for the hanger instead.

“Went to sell his weapons at Wayward Foothills,” Galahad explained, grabbing the coat from the other man’s hands and hanging it himself. “Won't be returning until dinnertime.”

“Ah,” the man muttered, staring at his coat, dripping melted snowflakes to the floor. “So we are alone.”

Galahad nodded absent-mindedly, and then paused briefly. His eyes widened as he turned to face his partner, who stared at him intently now. The young norn could feel his whole face turn red, while the other man came closer, staring at his lips.

“Reinhart,” Galahad muttered nervously, as the young man smiled upon hearing him call his name, breathless. As always.

“Just a little one,” Reinhart said with a mischievous smile. He came closer and closer, and Galahad could feel his warmth, even with his eyes closed in eagerness for the contact…

“Just a little what?” called out Encke, and the two young norns jumped away from each other. “A little lamb leg? Those are for today’s dinner, Galahad. Not for you and your friend’s morning snack. And you know it.”

“Encke,” grunted Galahad, walking towards the minotaur carpet in front of the sofa. His sister didn’t even bother to look up at him; she kept on carving a tiny moa effigy in a piece of soft wood, lying comfortably on the floor. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the Panther’s shrine for your lesson?”

“I don’t know, brother,” she wondered sarcastically, still carving. “Aren’t you supposed to be gathering berries as tribute to Raven for tonight’s moot?”

Galahad hesitated, blushing and grunting once more while sighing deeply. Reinhart giggled nervously, looking the other way.

“Very well, you win, you little skritt,” muttered Galahad, as Encke threw a big, toothy smile at him. “As long as you go see the shaman this afternoon.”

“As you say, you huge dolyak,” Encke replied, proceeding with his carving. “You know I won't tell if you don't tell.”

“You have yourself a deal, miss,” Galahad sighed, unable to stop himself from smiling.

When he turned towards Reinhart, however, his gesture turned apologetic, as the other man tried and failed to suppress his laughter. They would have their way later. Days seemed to extend endlessly in front of them.

But hours kept sliding by, dying one after the other, and the day grew darker, and colder. Galahad's gaze had been stripped from the warm twinkle of life, as he stood in front of the empty doorway. Tahiel was silently impressed that he wasn’t crying, thought there only weren’t tears streaming down his cheeks. Perhaps he was crying in another, more subtle way. Perhaps he had never stopped crying.

The still young norn turned once again to the center of the homestead, Thorvald’s Homestead, and sighed deeply, as if physically wounded. Echoes of the Mists lingered like human ghosts; endlessly and uselessly repeating themselves to the ears of no one. The screams, the desperate prayer, the pleading for salvation, the telltale sounds of battle.

The roar of Jormag's Claw.

Thorvald threw the table against the door, aided by Galahad. Both men exchanged a quick glance before turning to look for more stuff to barricade the door with; their beds, the sofa, Thorvald’s workbench. The screams and the reek of death managed to slide inside from under the barricade, as Thorvald emptied a water bucket in the roaring fire, submerging the room in darkness.

Galahad tried to catch his breath, looking around, trying to get used to the darkness as the sound grew louder. His thoughts raced towards Havroun Harald, Reinhart, his mother Magnir. They weren’t ready for an attack. They weren’t ready to face one of Jormag's champions.

A suffocated gasp and a hush made him look at the now empty space on top on the minotaur carpet, where Frida cradled Encke and hugged her tight. Even from that distance, he could tell they were crying; Frida tried to remain calm through her trembles, as Encke sobbed on her chest. The girl looked up, locking gazes with Galahad briefly. Her terror froze his own fear.

“Father,” he whispered, standing up from the barricade. “I need to get out.”

“Galahad-...” his father began, but the young norn interrupted.

“Let me go out there. I can help,” he insisted, urgently. “The Icebrood will keep coming until dawn. Mother will-...”

“Galahad!” Thorvald muttered, sternly this time. “I won't let you out there. Sit down and keep quiet.”

“Mother needs help!” Galahad protested, through clenched teeth.

“Mother is buying us time!” Thorvald hissed, and only then Galahad noticed tears pooling on is eyes. “Now do as I say, and sit down.”

Then he understood that they were not going to make it until dawn. Swallowing hard, Galahad nodded, sitting back down on his place on the barricade.

He could only hear the sobbing, and the screams, and the roars. Until an axe cut through the closed door, pushing him forward. Encke whimpered in fear, and Galahad felt a chill down his spine. No orders, no yelling, no rallying. The Icebrood silently moved like a plague; suffocating all life in front of them without even exchanging a word.

Galahad closed his eyes tightly, as the pounding became worse; more axes were tearing down the door. There would be no hiding to aid them. No warriors left to save them.

Thorvald cursed under his breath, and stood up with his staff in hand. Galahad had never seen him use it; he had retired from the life of a hero to establish his homestead, to inspire younger norns with his stories of victory. A cold light surrounded the man, getting caught on the tears that streamed non-stop down his face. Galahad didn’t notice until then that he had been crying too.

He stood up beside his father, with a sword and axe in each hand and the whimpers and crying of his sisters on his mind. The frozen axes and corrupted bodies of his enemies weakened the barricade faster and faster; a dark will gathered the Dragon’s spawn at their door.

Suddenly, however, he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, and upon turning to face him, he hugged him tightly. It was a goodbye gesture that Galahad treasured, even as it tore his heart appart. They might reunite on the Mists, where the Spirits’ Lodge awaits for the brave. Maybe he would meet Reinhart there, too. Maybe he would meet his mother.

But his father pushed him away, as he waved his staff and ignited the room in a strange, ethereal light. Galahad widened his eyes, confused, as his father pushed him further back with his shoulder, giving him a look that the young norn wouldn't understand until what felt like a second later but was so much more time, as he landed on the stone floor of the Durmand Priory. Because Thorvald realized that he could only save one of his children, or condemn them all to perish under the shadow of Jormag. So he decided to save him and let the Mists decide his fate, as Galahad's sisters screamed while the Icebrood broke down the door, as the world turned grey around the young norn, and the Mists embraced him in a merciful slumber.

He dropped on one knee, touching the frozen ground with an extended palm. Galahad had thought many times that he had no longer enough tears to shed for his family, but he was sorely mistaken. His shoulders trembled as he closed his eyes tightly, and warm tears dropped to the floor.

“They are in peace,” he heard Tahiel mutter softly, so different from his usual bashful sarcasm. “Upon saving you, they found peace. Upon defending their home, they found release.”

The tiny hand of the sylvari caressed his shoulder, and Galahad grabbed it with abandon. An anchor to the world of the living, in a place of death and sorrow where shadows lurked.

“May the Raven guard them,” solemnly murmured the reaper. “And may it guide you to them in time.”

 _Sing to me, raven,_   
_I miss her so much._   
_Sing to me, Lily,_ _  
I miss you so much._

_Steven Wilson - The Raven That Refused To Sing_


End file.
